


Forty Days and Forty Nights

by arroways



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Altar Sex, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Religious, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Angst, Comeplay, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest Kink, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Spanking, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Vaginal Fingering, actually don't that's a TERRIBLE IDEA, don't look at me like that... you're the one reading this, go to church maybe after you read this, inappropriate use of a cathedral tbh, inappropriate use of a confessional, inappropriate use of an altar, inappropriate use of the catacombs, probably, there's a safeword tho so, unsafe bdsm practices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-03-23 03:44:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13778958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arroways/pseuds/arroways
Summary: As a nun at a Catholic cathedral, Sister Rey inexplicably finds herself drawn to the Archbishop.





	1. Ash Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> If you're confused, extenuating circumstances (which I won't get into, but were perfectly valid at the time) meant I had to temporarily take down this fic. Only recently re-uploaded it, and it was temporarily locked to AO3 users-only for a period of time.
> 
> I also took the time to revamp/rewrite a few of these scenes. Unfortunately, despite the name of the fic, there will NOT be daily updates for this, but I'm hoping to make fairly regular updates through Easter. 
> 
> If this isn't your thing, just, hit ALT+F4 right now and run for the hills. This is PURE SIN AND DEPRAVITY, and I like to think I earned this little rollercoaster ride after two decades of religious dogma being pounded into my skull. More on that later. 
> 
> Many thanks to the following folks: [withoutawish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutawish/profile), [destinies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinies/pseuds/destinies), [afalsebravado](https://twitter.com/afalsebravado), [Elizabethtudor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabethtudor/pseuds/Elizabethtudor), [oscillateswilde](https://tmblr.co/mUOqFYasRZpkdl_xTz3EMGg) and [cedarchip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarchip/profile) for all their help getting this off the ground.
> 
> And for tolerating my neverending sin, lust, and depravity. ;)

_ “Sister Rey, we must absolve ourselves of the sinful nature of this… behavior,” he murmurs. They speak in hushed, soft tones. _

_ “I agree, most Reverend Ren,” her eyes sparkle then, and a pause, “if only for forty days, and forty nights.” _

_ He tilts his head down to meet her gaze. “You don’t mean –” _

_ “I may give you up for Lent, yes.” _

_ His eyes widen, then darken in understanding. _

_ “Spare me, oh Lord,” he whispers, though not to her. _

✝✝✝

He is an archbishop, and she, a nun. 

They would not ordinarily have met under normal circumstances. 

His days are wrought with archdiocesan responsibilities. She manages charitable efforts within the Cathedral.

One Sunday mass, weeks after she had begun her tenure at the Cathedral, their eyes had met during a sermon. He stood at the pulpit, his arms gripping the edges with a steely resolve as he preached, and their eyes met. It wasn’t anything particularly salacious, but they spent the next twenty minutes with their eyes boring into each other. A gamble, and a promise. 

Moving forward, their hands would touch, occasionally, during communion. Their eyes did not meet for the longest time, and yet their hands would linger, milliseconds too long.

She had grown accustomed to the texture of his fingers, when he handed her the body of Christ. She knew the roughness of them well. She knew the ridges at his knuckles.

He began to invite her on walks around the garden. They operated under the guise of pursuing and expanding the Cathedral’s charitable work. Initially, their conversations were just so.

They sat upon benches under fir trees, an appropriate distance apart, and one day, they allowed their hands to touch.

A flame burned within them both. 

✝✝✝

And so, they had agreed that Lent was the time to seek penance. For they both knew the truth the other suffered. The slow burning lava that simmered beneath their skin, begging to break free. 

Her night so far had been spent in what can only be described as a cold sweat. She had flung the windows of the room in her dormitory wide open, despite the fact she was dressed in nothing but a thin, white shift.

It had been months, and her sleep was restless. She felt she could not breathe with the weight of her desire. Her afternoons were spent kneeling, praying, begging for forgiveness for the thoughts racing across her inner eyelids, although she had not yet taken action on them.

_ Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, _

_ Have mercy on us. _

_ Christ, hear us. _

_ Christ, graciously hear us.  _

Sister Rey paced her room, her feet padding softly against the hardwood floor beneath her, wringing her hands.

_ What had she done? _

_ What had they done? Allowing their hands to touch as they did? _

She retreats into her bed, pulling the sheets up around her lithe form, and twirling within them. The fabric wraps around her limbs, partially comforting her. 

Her eyes travel to the crucifix hanging upon the wall, and she rips her gaze from it almost as quickly as she had looked to it. She feels herself beginning to cry, almost, for the only thought within her mind then is the memory of his fingers softly tracing hers. Tears sting at the corner of her lashes.

His fingers, oh, his fingers, they had felt better than any prayer ever had. Or could.

She brought the sheet up to her face, and covered her chin lightly with it in attempt to shield herself from these thoughts. 

“Please forgive me and save me; come into my heart. I want to receive you as my own personal Lord and savior. Amen,” she whispers into the darkness. 

And yet, she’s not speaking to the figure on the crucifix upon her wall, is she?

She feels a throbbing between her thighs, and she lets out an exasperated sound as she twists the sheets into an increasingly tangled mess around her thighs and abdomen, squinting her eyes shut, her mouth forming a litany of  _ please _ as she hopes she can beg herself to sleep. 

Sleep comes, eventually, but her dreams that night are haunted by the sensations of calloused fingers taking every piece of her apart, disassembling her and putting her back together again, like a deliciously crude puzzle. 

✝✝✝

_**Ash Wednesday** _

He sat within the closed confessional stall, ready to hear the sins of his parishioners. He welcomed these confessions, as they distracted him from his own desires, tightly coiled somewhere deep within him.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” came the soft, hushed voice from the other side of the curtain.

His thighs clench.

“These are my sins,” the voice whispered. He interlocked his fingers and gripped his hands over his thighs. His knuckles turned white, and he leaned his head against the mahogany of the stall. 

“I have had lascivious thoughts, about a man I should not desire,” the voice continued. “Is this a mortal sin?”

He stammers. The temperature has risen exponentially in the small space, and he finds himself lifting a hand to adjust the stiff white clerical collar around his neck. He feels himself harden, a reaction not uncommon these days when in her presence. He feels her now, through the fabric that divides them.

From behind the curtain, a small hand appears through the gap. It reaches towards his thigh, and he finds himself frozen, unable to stop her fingers from slipping through his robes, towards his trousers beneath. 

“I am a righteous man,” his voice is low.

“And I am proud of your virtue,” she responds. He peers out through the small openings of the privacy panel, shielding them both from view. A few visitors have gathered, but many left earlier after receiving the ash upon their foreheads. 

She pulls the curtain aside entirely then, and he finds that while her hand remains on his thigh, she has positioned herself upon the floor, and is kneeling before him. She wears a navy habit, fit snugly around her head. Her body is covered from his view, beneath the standard issue robes.

She looks up at him then, from beneath her eyelashes. She is eager, and pure, and both her hands travel up his thighs now. He feels her nails grip him through the wool fabric.

She’s whispering something as she pushes his robes up around his waist and begins to unfasten his trousers. Her hands are tentative, but she moves earnestly, and his fingers grip the wood of the bench beneath him. His pupils have blown wide as he watches her ministrations. 

She frees him, then, and unceremoniously parts his robes and leans up a bit on her knees, forward, and forward, pressing her lips against the tip of him, and he hears what she’s been murmuring, her lips soft against him –

_ "Who didst fast for them forty days and nights, have mercy on us," _ he hears her say, but his mind goes blank when she licks a long, thick stripe against the underside of his cock. He shudders. Had he no restraint, he is sure he would be able to paint a pretty picture upon her face, right then and there. Instead, he swallows thick in his throat, and finds himself inching toward the edge of the bench, trying to press closer into the hot, wet touch of her mouth between his legs.

Her lips circle him, and sink down, taking him in, but he’s incredibly hard, and incredibly thick, and he can’t bear to look down at the image for long. For when he does, he sees her lips swollen red with the strain of it, and spit forming around the edges of her mouth, and her increasing enthusiasm. Her fingers travel down his thighs, down his calves, to grip him at the ankles and hold him still. He realizes he’s been bucking a little, his hips circling in wretchedly obvious movements.

“Ren,” she chokes against his cock and moans. “I have thought about this in prayer,” she lifts off him, with a loud, wet pop, and speaks against his swollen flesh. “I have thought about this, how you would feel, within my mouth, I have thought about this each time you have placed a holy communion upon my tongue, and Holy Father, I have prayed daily for that communion to one day be your flesh, so that I may be upon my knees…”

He’s begun a litany of prayer in response to her words, and she trails off, to hollow her cheeks around him and suck, hard. Her hands are still gripped around his ankles, and she’s lifted the cuffs of his pants up a bit so that she may press her nails into his sensitive skin, leaving half-moon marks around his calves.

“Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, spare us, oh Lord,” is the prayer upon his lips.

He finds himself brought to the edge, and he hovers there, a plateau where he recognizes his imminent demise, and just as he thinks he is there, she pulls off him fiercely –

“Pray for it. Pray for this,” she growls at him, with a fervor of which he has never seen from the likes of her, and she is in an absolute state, the habit she wears around her head has become slightly dislodged. Tendrils of hair peek out from beneath. Her lips are positively red, her cheeks and chin are wet and shiny. Her eyes are dark and hooded, and he lifts his hips towards her desperately, so close to finding release. 

“Hear my prayer, have mercy on me. Hear my prayer, have mercy. I beseech thee, Sister –  _ Rey, _ have mercy, oh Lord have mercy,” he lifts his hands to grasp the back of her head, attempting to pull her close, and she denies him this. Instead, she releases her grasp upon his ankles and swats his hands away, entwining her fingers with his clammy ones and pressing them back into the bench, where she holds him there.

“The Lord giveth,” she whispers, and circles him with her mouth once more. By some grace of God, she takes him in to the hilt, and he feels her gag a little, the muscles within her throat contracting. But still she greedily takes him in, and within moments he’s spilling within her, and she takes it, she ravenously takes it in, swallowing hard.

As he softens, she frees him from her mouth, letting his hands go and standing, towering above him in this state.

“We did not say specifically, how I would give you up, for forty days and forty nights, your Reverence,” she states to him. He looks absolutely debauched, his cock hanging out of his trousers, his robes pushed up, pooling around his waist, his neck covered in a red flush. 

She adjusts her habit, steps back slightly, closing the curtain behind her. He hears the click of the confessional door as she departs for the day, leaving him panting heavily in her wake.


	2. Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sister Rey drops her croissants.

The cathedral and its grounds sits atop a grassy hill, a hill that ends abruptly at a grey sidewalk, which then extends into a grimy street. The city expands beyond that, a ghastly grid of chaos, depravity, and sin.

The cathedral and its cloisters are a welcome haven, a virtuous escape within this urban landscape. Adjacent to the cathedral building itself is a garden, surrounded by a number of paths, archways, and alcoves meant for prayer and reflection. The gardens are tended carefully, and in the springtime, it's a sight to behold when they reach full bloom.

For now, it is mid-February, and this area is left primarily unattended. There’s a constant nip in the air, and in the morning, a frost has settled upon the grass, freezing it so that it crunches beneath one’s foot.

✝✝✝

Before the incident on Ash Wednesday, and before they had agreed that Lent might be a good time to absolve themselves of the desire they acknowledged within each other, their interactions had been sporadic, but growing increasingly heated.

Ren had assumed, with her claim that she might  _ give him up _ for these forty days and forty nights, that they would have no contact with each other moving forward, which frankly, should have been simple enough to accomplish.

Following their encounter in the confessional, he realized that she was following this season of  _ abstinence _ and fasting with her own interpretation of the text. Ren realized she may be testing them both, testing their faith, and their understanding of what it meant exactly to abstain what they both most desired.

And the question settled over the cathedral, tendrils seeping through the walls and latching upon them as if Satan himself knew the dilemma at hand: _how long would they hold out, before the temptation destroyed them both?_

✝✝✝

In the mornings, Sister Rey would carry a basket of baked goods from the kitchens, through the gardens, and to the cathedral area. He had grown accustomed to watching her from a window in a stairwell overlooking the cloisters as she did so. Sometimes, her skirts would rustle just so and he might catch a glimpse of her stockings around her ankles.

And  _ this _ morning, he had decided to turn the tables, and have her pay penance for her actions on Ash Wednesday. He was privy to do so, after all.

As she made her way down one of the arched walkways, he appeared from behind a pillar, and fell into step beside her.

“Your Reverence,” she murmured, nodding at him.

“Sister,” came his response. She was clasping her basket of croissants with two hands, but the hand closest to him dropped to her side then, and brushed against his, where it swung near his hip.

“You will repent,” he growled abruptly, as her fingers lightly passed over his knuckles in subtle flirtation, and he found himself backing her into one of the alcoves then in a frenzy, her basket dropping from her hands, the croissants spilling upon the stones beneath them.

“Those – you –” came her startled cry as he backed her into the curve of the wall, where they were partially hidden from sight, albeit still incredibly public to any wandering passerby. Though, the chill of the early morning February air had him hoping the tourists would steer clear of this area.

“If we must abstain, in the eyes of the Lord,” he begins, but in his eager assault, he’s exposed a bit of skin there, at her neck, where her collar has now loosened slightly, and he’s overwhelmed. His thoughts trail away from him, and he presses his lips there, to the juncture between the jawline and her neck, and he trails his mouth to her earlobe, biting it slightly.

She speaks, then, “Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation, your Reverence.”

“I pray every day,” he whispers, sucking at her earlobe, and she gasps softly against him.

His thoughts settle on the memory of her skirts as she strolls through the garden, and he detaches himself and reaches down slightly to lift the fabric around her legs to her knees, taking in the sight of the proper white stockings she wears beneath.

“A just man falls, seven times a day,” she tells him, as he backs her further into the alcove, where a small seating area is conveniently located. He keeps her upright, but positions one of her legs, bent, upon the seat there, and proceeds to trace his calloused fingers up, over her stockings, to the warm core of her.

“Pray, sister, tell me, I desire to abstain from temptation. I am willing,” he pleads to her, his fingers finding themselves dipping beneath the stockings, pulling them aside, and beneath another layer of fabric, before he finds her wet, soaking, and clenching at his fingertips.

“The spirit indeed is willing, Ren, but the flesh is  _ weak _ ,” she gasps against him, pulling him closer to her with her hands tightening in his robes. He groans, audibly, at the sound of his name upon her lips, at the feel of her around him. She’s pulled him in close now, so that her legs have trapped him, and he hopes the stone walls of the alcove have them adequately shielded from view.

He traces her hot, wet flesh, swelling beneath his touch, and dips further back, to find her very center, where she’s quivering slightly. He can feel her there, begging for his touch, and he obliges, sliding a single digit into her soaking core. She responds by grabbing his shoulders, pulling him closer (if that were possible), and he knows she wants more, she needs more, of something, anything –

He sinks another finger in her, curling the two of them within her, beckoning a bit, and he sees her bite her bottom lip. Tears form at the corner of her eyes, and he presses soft kisses to her forehead as the sounds she makes become increasingly incoherent.

“Penance,” he says as he brings his lips down to meet hers, covering them in a chaste kiss.

“Does this,” she gasps as his long fingers extend deeper into her, exploring places she’s never thought existed, a labyrinth of desire she’s discovering only now, up against this stone wall, “does this absolve me of my sins, archbishop?”

Her whimpers turn into keens, coming deep within the back of her throat as she bucks headily into him, and he struggles to accommodate her through the layers of fabric. It’s an absolutely depraved sight, her foot propped up against the seat in the alcove, leaning back into the wall, her hands grasping for balance against him. Her skirts, ridden up slightly around her hips, his hand below them, between her thighs, beneath it all.

He feels himself throbbing beneath his robes, between his legs, and he’s dizzy, as he leans farther, up and into her, and curls his long, dexterous fingers within her, once, twice, as nimbly as he possibly can, and he finds her keeling against him, her mouth biting into his shoulder in a desperate act to silence herself. His hand feels slick, even slicker now as moisture builds in her moment of climax, and he releases her from his grasp. He frees his hand from between her thighs and watches her skirts fall to cover her once more.

They maintain eye contact for a moment, a knowing energy passing between them. He nods at her, and she drops to her knees then to gather the croissants she had dropped earlier.

Archbishop Ren straightens his clerical collar, turns on his heel, and walks away.


	3. Sacrament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inappropriate use of the cathedral catacombs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this is just going to be entirely gratuitous, with absolutely zero context. Did you come here for plot? You were mistaken...

“There are no dead here,” he says lamely.

“I know,” she responds. Her hand presses into one of the thick stone slabs embedded in the wall. It’s cool beneath her touch. 

“They were moved decades ago,” he adds.

“I know, Ren,” she can sense his trepidation. They’ve found themselves in the catacombs this evening. Primarily used for storage, occasionally used for additional meeting space. The ceiling is vaulted, and the area is so vast, it seems to expand forever into a dark abyss. There are multiple recesses in the walls, where tombs were once held. Now, in these spaces, boxes are tossed haphazardly over each other in a precarious jumble. 

He approaches her earnestly where she’s begun to lean against a wall, and takes her hands in his. 

“I cannot sleep, for the thought of you,” he pleads with her.

“Nor I, you,” her voice drops, allowing her thumb to caress his knuckles tenderly, an acceptance passing between them both.

He releases her from his grip, and moves to cup her face in his hands, before drawing her in for a desperate kiss. The nun realizes this is the first time they’ve properly kissed, really. Here, in the darkness of the catacombs, shrouded from view. 

Is this to be their future? Meetings in the dark, deep within the confines of this cathedral? Is this the best they can hope for?

Almost as soon as that thought crosses her mind, her defenses come to her rescue, and she alters the kiss into something fiercer, angrier. She uses her hands to move Ren’s grip on her cheeks so that they grasp lightly around her neck. Rey opens her eyes to find him watching her, and she bites his tongue. 

She moves her head back slightly, so she may whisper something to him in the dark. A song she’s had in her mind frequently these past few days. “The scent of your breath is like apples, and your mouth like the best wine.”

Sister Rey falls to her knees reverently, he regards her carefully as she does so. The dim lighting obscures her face even more in her new position, and he doubts he would ask her to change it for the world. 

“How do you think of me, Ren?” she asks him as her fingers unclasp the tightly fitted fabric around her neck. She undoes it slowly, creating a spectacle for him, baring the bare skin of her chest inch by inch.

“Constantly,” he replies, as his eyes rake over the plain white brassiere she bares to him.

“ _ But how _ ?” she emphasizes. She’s a sight to behold. On her knees, her hair still hidden beneath her veil. The top part of her chest exposed, with fabric pooling around her waist and onto the floor. 

He doesn’t respond, and so she recites to him, “I was a wall, and my breasts were like towers; then I was in his eyes as one who finds peace.”

She begins undoing his trousers, and there’s a strangled noise in the back of his throat that he chokes back as she does so. She frees him, roughly, chafing him slightly in the process, and he grimaces, but that’s replaced quickly with a scorching wave desire as she begins to stroke his half-hard cock to attention. 

They’re fairly close to one of the walls of the catacombs, here, and he leans forward to balance an arm upon the stone as her soft fingers stroke his swollen flesh.

Rey takes his free hand in hers, and replaces it on his cock as she casts her gaze up to him from beneath her lashes. 

“Give me this sacrament,” she dictates, squaring her shoulders a bit. He can see her erect nipples through the thin white cloth of her brassiere. The archbishop widens his eyes, and begins a methodical tug at his leaking cock. 

He won’t be able to keep this up. She is an absolute image of both virtue and depravity, half-dressed and on her knees before him, her lips slightly red from their earlier kiss, her cheeks flushed with desire. 

His hands move quickly, desperately against his cock. His imagination gets away from him. He remembers the sensation of lips around his flesh, surrounding him in impossibly delicate warmth. He remembers the way his toes curled as she took his spend deep within her throat, swallowing around him. 

Frankly, it’s too much. The knowledge that a cathedral attendant could happen upon them, down here in the catacombs. The knowledge that there are still so many days ahead of them, and that this temptation will not end once Easter beckons for them. In fact, it may only grow worse.

She’s breathing heavily now, squirming slightly as she kneels before him, and he believes her to be rubbing her thighs together in a desperate attempt at friction. 

He groans, loudly, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings and arches surrounding them. Ren comes harshly, his ejaculate painting her pale, delicate chest with thick ropes of semen. She throws her head back, accepting it gratefully.

As he pants, trying to find his breath again, he watches her through hooded eyes as she brings her fingers up to scoop his seed off her. 

And then, unexpectedly, her fingers coated in his come, she angles up from her kneeling position on the floor to press her fingers between his plush lips and into his mouth. Their eyes meet as she does so.

“That what is given to us, may be our healing for eternity,” her voice is soft as butter as her fingers trace over his tongue, and Ren licks the remnants of his climax off her, salty and bitter, but accepted eagerly from her flesh.

Sister Rey leaves him breathing heavily above her as she carefully clasps the upper portion of her garment back together, allowing the remainder of his semen to stay splayed across her chest, a secret beneath her clothing. 

She stands to depart, giving him a small smile, and allowing him to compose himself. Her skirts are covered slightly with dirt at her knees. Long after she walks away, he turns and slumps against the catacomb wall, covering his face with his hands and muttering a prayer to a deity that may have long since disavowed him.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, the Song of Solomon is absolute filth. I pulled some quotes from it for this bit, if you didn't notice.


	4. Oral Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey receives a different type of communion on the cathedral altar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If I wasn't going to hell already for the last three chapters, I sure am now!
> 
> Thank you to my betas for enduring this.
> 
> Apologies for the long delay here. I promise I had my own valid, personal reasons as to why I had to lock and put this fic on hold. I'm just excited to start posting once more. Again, no daily updates, but I'll do my best to keep it regular. Things have been a bit hectic in the real world. ;)

At night, darkness blankets the cathedral in a calming haze. The nave is lit by dozens of flickering candles, casting the pews in a warm glow. When he had been younger, Archbishop Kylo Ren had enjoyed the Christmas masses at night. He could watch the lights flicker off the stained glass in the towering windows. As a little boy, by a different name, he would imagine the figures in the glass coming to life, dancing and smiling down at him.

The windows seemed much smaller, now that he was older. They’d lost a bit of the magic they had once held.

This particular evening, he was hidden away in the chancel, tending to items in the feretory. These relics weren’t for public view, and he was honored by the opportunity to care for them. They gave him something to tend to when he was unable to sleep (which was often).

His hands pause as they polish a silver chalice, and he sets it down gently on top of the reliquary. He could hear footsteps. It was well past midnight. Who was up this late?

There it was again, the sound of feet softly padding on the marble outside the chancel.

He peers out of the screened-off area and looked out into the transept. The ceiling arched above this space miraculously. A gorgeous mosaic twinkled far above. 

It was silent, but his eyes fall to the altar in the center of the space. He could see a head bent over it in prayer.

“Excuse me?” is the best he can come up with, at such a late hour. Occasionally, vagrants made their way into the cathedral. He usually directed them to the local boarding home adjacent to the cathedral, run by the charitable efforts of the likes of Sister Rey. 

He walks out of the chancel, clicking the door shut behind him, and steps toward the altar.

The head lifts from the altar in shock. Wide brown eyes stare up at him, a face framed by tendrils of unkempt brown hair. 

“Your Reverence!” she exclaims, a soft whisper-shout that echoed slightly around the open space. She backs away from the altar, scrambling to stand and tripping over herself slightly.

The nun had clearly not expected company here, not this late at night. Her breath comes in quick gasps, surprise having overtaken her. She’s dressed in a simple white linen nightdress, and is barefoot. Had she walked all the way here from the dormitories in this state? He also notes her red, puffy eyes, dark circles carved into the space beneath them. He doesn’t blame her, he was in a similar state.

“It’s alright, don’t, it’s alright,” he calms her, and she responds with a timid smile. 

The distance between them seems unbearable, now that they’re so close again. It had been days since their last encounter in the catacombs. He had not seen or heard from her, and he wondered if her tears had anything to do with this prolonged absence.

“I’ve missed you,” she says at last, her voice barely a whisper, but she approaches the altar once more to kneel before it. He walks to the opposing side, the ornate wood and yards of delicately embroidered fabric upon it separating them.

Ren lets his hands rest on the altar, his fingers tracing the intricate designs upon it. Gold thread embedded into a red background, handmade with care and precision. 

“You’ve not been avoiding me?” he inquires. She jerks her head up from where she kneels, eyes meeting his. 

“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.” Her expression is indecipherable. The tears are gone, drying at the edges of her lashes, eyes now wide and eager. 

He stands in silence for a moment. “Why?”

He realizes he’s never really seen her with her hair down like this. It’s partially tied up, at the back, in a half looped bun. Her collarbones are visible beneath the slight opening of her nightdress, as is a cross hanging around her neck on a simple silver chain. 

“I wasn’t sure I could resist myself around you,” is her answer. Her breath hitches again. 

She stands with this confession. The altar itself is wide, at least four feet separating them. She starts to lean over it, but as she realizes the distance is too far, she finds herself lifting herself up onto it, knee by knee. 

_ This is wrong. _

She crawls over to him, across the red embroidered cloth. He can see slightly down the front of her shift. Is she… she’s not wearing any underthings. 

“I’d say we drop all pretense, Archbishop Ren. I believe we’ve passed the point of no return,” she murmurs, kneeling before him now. She’s taller than him in this position, and she pulls his chin up by a finger to bring him into a delicate kiss. It’s much too chaste for the implications of this coupling.

His hands travel to her back, ghosting up to her shoulder blades so that he can support her as he breaks their kiss and delicately lays her back upon the altar, adjusting her legs so they dangle off the edge.

She regards the mosaic far above them; the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the stained glass window above the ambulatory. The Virgin Mary looks down at them in silent recognition for hundreds of shards of colored glass. 

“He will not let us be tempted beyond what we can bear,” Ren says to her, trailing his hands now up her bare calves. The hem of the white linen stops at her knees, and he nudges it up around her hips without ceremony. 

“And when you are tempted,” she gasps as the cold air hits her, “He will also provide a way out,” her voice hitches as he kneels before her to rest his cheek against her inner thigh and regard her pink, swollen cunt reverently, “so that you can endure it.”

A kiss to her thigh. “I look forward to enduring it.”

He’s felt this part of her, of course. But he does not know it intimately. And, he thinks, this is quite an opportunity. To literally worship her. Take her as if she’s his communion, his salvation. Because deep inside him, he knows he’s  _ far _ past getting through the gates of St. Peter. 

And he sure as hell doesn’t want to be absolved. 

Her skin is covered in light freckles, invisible at first but apparent up close like this. There’s a particular spot on the upper part of her inner thigh where he places a quick kiss, and she trembles slightly. Light, curly hair covered the space at the apex of her thighs, and he knows now her cunt is the key to a different sort of absolution. 

Under his gaze, her soft, pink skin has swollen slightly, and arousal glitters on her sex. The candlelight surrounds them both in a warm glow, encouraging him to bring his lips to her slit and  _ kiss _ her there. Gently of course, at first, but it’s like he’s just discovered water and he doesn’t quite know how to drink, and all he can think about is what it might be like to devour her here, like this, for hours.

Sister Rey’s hands struggle to find purchase on the altar beneath her, but the space was cleared earlier that evening and there’s really nothing for her to grab. Her hands find their way to her breasts beneath her shift and she arches her back, her hips pushing forward into his mouth as he licks a thick, obscene stripe up her opening to her clit, where he sucks there for a moment.

Any attempts at decency or clandestine silence are thrown to the wind as she lets out a moan that reaches the nave and the narthex beyond it. The sound echoes through the empty cathedral.

And, a word, a whisper on her lips he’s sure he’s  _ never  _ heard spoken here, let alone in the transept, on the altar:  _ “Fuck.” _

Her reaction implores him to grip her by the knees, pulling her farther to the edge and spreading her wide. Jolts of sensation shoot from where every part of his skin meets hers. She swears she’s floating, he swears he must be drowning. Both of them hope they never return to solid ground.

He feasts upon her like she’s the ripest peach he’s ever had the privilege to taste. Her juices coat his chin, and when her gasps start to come closer together he frees his right hand from his grip on her knee and the Archbishop slides two fingers easily into her welcoming cunt. The soft, wet sound this makes should not be acceptable in such a holy space, and yet here they are. 

She gives up twisting her nipples through her nightdress and instead threads her fingers through his hair. His dark, gorgeous hair. She could grip it all day, in her own type of worship. When she yanks slightly at it, he moans a bit into her, the vibrations catching her off guard as she shudders in reaction. 

His fingers fill her, stretching her, and as he pairs it with enthusiastic attention to her clit, she dissolves into a squirming mess. He need only beckon forward once, twice, three times into her tight, ripe pussy until she’s covering her mouth with her own hands and coming with a muffled cry, her gaze meeting that of the Virgin Mary in the stained glass above them. 

She holds that gaze through her shuddering climax, where her thighs snap shut hard around his head and holds Archbishop Kylo Ren there with force as he coaxes her through what can only be described as the most enjoyable sacrament he’s ever given in the vicinity of this establishment. 

Afterwords, as they both relax slightly, he pulls his head away a bit and notices their activities have slightly wettened the ornate red cloth beneath Rey’s hips. 

“This was hand embroidered in the eighteenth century,” he tells her soft inner thigh. 

She’s still in a trance, but she’s let her hands fall to her sides as she looks up towards the vaulted ceilings far above the chancel. 

It’s in these moments, after they’ve satiated their desires, that the truth of what they’ve done settles on them like a cloying, itchy heat

Sister Rey tugs her shift back down to her knees, casting a quick glance at the altar. “It should dry, just leave it,” she says offhandedly, before padding away, back down the wide aisle of the nave, avoiding the gazes of the stone statues around her, bowing their heads in prayer.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent way too much time analyzing the layout of a typical cathedral for this. I like to imagine it as pretty Gothic, but with some later additions. 
> 
> A beta of mine pointed out that... the stain would... nOT dry like water, and, she ain't wrong. Maybe this is a later plot point. Stay tuned.


	5. Palm Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY PALM SUNDAY Y'ALL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Mixy](https://twitter.com/afalsebravado) for beta-ing this mess. I've been very distracted by another WIP but wanted to get this bit of filth out of my brain and onto "paper" in honor of Palm Sunday.
> 
> Before reading, please remember these two are repressed Catholics with little practice/understanding of safe sex, let alone safe BDSM practices, and what happens in fanfic doesn't really reflect what should or does happen in reality. ;)

Sister Rey has Archbishop Kylo Ren bent over his desk in the cathedral office.

The office generally matches the decor of the cathedral. The bookcases are ornate, slightly gothic, and littered with historical, leather-bound books. Before he had met her, before she had arrived here at the cathedral, he had spent many hours perusing these books. He would lose himself in priceless illuminated manuscripts and timeless prayers.

He now shivers under the touch of a nun, her fingertips hovering centimeters above him at some points. He wants to lean back into her, press himself against her. She won’t let him. When he presses himself up into her touch, their skin separated only by the fabric of his clothing, she flinches her hand away in a game of cat and mouse. 

This continues for minutes as she maps out his body.

And before he processes what’s happening, before he processes the slight change in her stance that should have alerted him, her palm is making contact with the fabric covering his rear.

He flinches, up into the slap. He welcomes it. And, he succumbs, helpless to the soft little yelp released from the confines of his throat.

“Ah, your reverence,” she murmurs, leaning over the desk to press her lips to his ear. “What a vision.” He shivers at the sensation of her breath. 

She steps away from him for a moment, before roughly pressing open a leather bound bible in front of him. She practically shoves his face into the worn, soft pages. He wants to object, but only because it's a priceless antique. 

“Read,” she instructs. He whimpers beneath her slightly. He wants more. He’s still clothed. What does she have planned for him? A plea for mercy is on the tip of his tongue. 

And, as though she senses this, she leans back over to whisper to him, her fingers tracing circles on his lower back. “You need only tell me the word  _ apple _ .”

He nods meekly into the book beneath him, an understanding between them.

With that, she begins to tug down his trousers, efficiently undoing his belt with deft fingers, but baring only the pale skin of his buttocks.

 She kneels behind him momentarily to bite the freshly freed skin here, leaving behind a reddened mark with the indentation of her teeth. 

“Read,” she commands again, before straightening and bringing her palm down once more to meet him.

He squirms beneath her. 

“Blessed is a man,” he feels himself drool a bit, his voice ragged as he grasps at his desk.

She spanks him once more.

“...who perseveres under trial,” he feels the heat of this in his toes. The pain of her open palm meeting his ass sends a jolt up his spine. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end, and he groans.

“I didn’t say stop reading,” Sister Rey’s voice is soft, contradictory to the increasing tempo of her smacks

He whimpers. He is hyper-aware of his swollen cock, still confined within his trousers. All the blood has rushed from his head to his lower abdomen. It pools deep in his toes, deeper and deeper, lava licking at parts of him long since forgotten. 

He continues to squirm beneath her, desperate for some sort of friction.  

“If you keep moving like that,” she looms over him, “you’ll make yourself come.” She brings her lips close to his ear. “Finish the passage,” she orders. 

He chokes slightly on his own spit before continuing. He finds his breath hard to chase. His throat is thick, he thinks he can hear an ocean in his ears. 

“For once he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life,” he manages to gasp out.

He starts to buck headily into the mahogany of the desk beneath him. The wood is hard, solid, but it provides the friction he needs against his aching flesh. 

“Which the Lord has promised,” he says, and she punctuates his voice with a perfunctory slap, with each beat, as he begins to finish reading, “to those who love Him.”

She kneads her fingers into the reddened, swollen flesh of his backside.

“Turn over,” she tells him. He flops himself over, facing upwards, panting heavily. She covers the shape of him over his trousers. “Now move.”

Understanding her implication, he thrusts headily up into her delicate hand. He flings an elbow over his eyes in tortured concentration. 

And then, his body finds release, a release that makes his jaw go slack and his eyes go wide, a release that paints the inside of his conservative dark trousers white. He flings his arm out, knocking the antique bible to the floor. A slight wet patch forms there, upon his crotch, and Sister Rey clicks her tongue at him.

As he breathes heavily, she kneels before him once more and licks at his groin. He murmurs, unsure of if he should push her away or pull her closer. It seems all too much.  _ Mercy _ . But at no point does he consider  _ apple. _

She pulls her tongue off his trousers with a devious grin. He is so sure she licks her lips slightly. He feels his come cooling on his thighs, his buttocks smarting from their position upon his desk.

“Your reverence,” Sister Rey whispers, nodding to him, before getting up off the ground, brushing her knees off, and departing his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, a bit of suspense of disbelief here, and uh, this does not reflect safe BDSM practices, but I've tagged as such. <3


	6. Myrrh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She reckons she has stained too many parts of this cathedral for her to reasonably get past the gates of St. Peter. 
> 
> And who could she confess to? The man between her thighs?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [heliocentrics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentrics/profile) and [Becca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscillateswildly/profile) for feedback and edits on this chapter. <3

The halls of the cathedral at night lay heavy with a thick, muffled silence. In this weather, the stone corridors are damp and slightly musty. A chill settles over select parts of the intricate architecture. 

And after a few centuries, the cathedral has areas and rooms that have been long since forgotten. Occasionally a stray churchgoing child will wander and get lost, and the janitorial staff will follow their cries and shrieks to one of these forgotten rooms or hallways or cobweb-laden offices. 

The diocese just doesn’t have the funding, these days, to take the time to truly explore the gothic mysteries the cathedral has to offer. 

Archbishop Ren, however, has perfected the art of brooding and sulking. He knows of the hidden staircases, he knows of the silent, empty rooms filled with forgotten books and relics. He knows.

Sister Rey does not. 

As she’s departing the nave after delivering candles one night, the Archbishop sneaks out from behind a curtain and pulls the nun close to his chest, his hand covering her mouth to muffle her startled cry.

She relaxes into him when she realizes the identity of her assailant _._

“Your Reverence,” she murmurs against his skin before he pulls his hand away. She wonders if he had been waiting for her, or if this was an impromptu encounter. Maybe he knew her movements, her schedule. Something stirred within her, the knowledge that he might hope to run into her when no one else was around.

“I’ve been thinking about the events that occurred on Palm Sunday,” he whispers against her ear. She positively shivers, his warm breath tickling the side of her face.

“You have?” she asks as she tilts her head slightly, baring her neck to him. 

“I have,” and his hand pulls at her veil, his lips pressing against the delicate skin of her throat.

“Would you like to go somewhere new tonight, Sister?”

There’s something about the way that they don’t talk about what they do, yet they both understand what it is. They both know the boundaries, they both know what the unspoken agreement entails. And yet it’s still as untouchable as the smell of incense in a transept.

She can’t help the whimper that comes from her throat as he licks up the side of her neck, and his other hand comes to grasp at her throat gently. His hands are huge and encompass her neck. She thinks about the calloused pads of his fingertips elsewhere on her body.

Thoughts that she, a nun, should not be having about the Archbishop. But they're likely long past concern over impropriety.

She can’t speak, her throat feels a bit thick now, but she nods into him as a response to his question, and she swears she can feel him smile slightly behind her.

He pulls back a bit, and entwines their fingers together, grasping her hand.

There’s also something painfully intimate about the way they hold hands, something painful about the implications, something painful about the familiarity of it all. 

He leads her to the side of the nave, pulling aside an intricate tapestry to reveal a hidden staircase. 

She looks up at him in shock, wide-eyed. “Who else knows about this?”

“Not many do,” is his almost  _ playful _ reply. The more time she spends with him, the more she realizes there’s something else there, dancing beneath his carefully constructed, brooding surface.

He leads her up the stairs, winding up and up one of the towers of the cathedral. The staircase gets colder as the ascend, and she shivers slightly. He squeezes her hand, soothing her.

They get to a landing about halfway up the tower, and she notes it’s locked. He retrieves a heavy iron key, leading her down the damp, chilly hallway.

He pulls her through another locked door, into a small room, finally, and she’s surprised. She thought it would have been dilapidated, cobwebs everywhere. But no, it’s neat. Organized. It’s been maintained. There’s a small red couch lining one wall; bookcases line the other. A small altar is pushed up under a set of stained glass windows letting in the evening sunset. 

He takes a moment to light two of the gas lamps on the side tables near the couch. 

She peruses the bookshelf as he does so. None of these books are holy in nature. There are the poems of Catullus, there’s Homer, there’s Sappho, and her eyebrows lift to her hairline. But there’s also Mary Shelley, Emily Brontë, Leo Tolstoy, and Shakespeare. Some of it is literature and poetry she’d never even considered to peruse, due to her upbringing and her calling. She’s almost scandalized.

“What is this?” she asks generally of the room.

“I’ve been coming here for years. It’s my sanctuary within this... sanctuary.”

He leans against a small desk in the corner, and she notes the calligraphy parchment and quills arranged neatly on the mahogany.

“I don’t know much about you,” she wonders out loud. She feels small in his presence, she feels uneducated, she feels unworthy, almost. She shakes the insecurity away and does her best to stand taller, square her shoulders. 

“Nor I, you,” he counters. 

_ What do I know, then? I know the planes of your body, _ she thinks.  _ I know the way you taste. I know the way your spend feels upon my skin. _

_ I know the way you take a hold of my dreams at night. I know the way I toss and turn thinking of the way your eyes glint in candlelight. _

Her fingers lift from a dust cover protecting a very old looking book by someone named Galileo Galilei. 

“None of this makes sense.”

She’s referring to his book collection, mostly. It’s not a collection becoming of an archbishop.

She turns to face him once more. He’s moved closer to her, taken a few steps towards her. 

“Who are you?”

He doesn’t care to answer her, because soon he has her locked in an embrace. His hands flush against the small of her back, pulling her up and towards his plush lips. She stands slightly on her toes in the process, kissing him back. 

She ends up sitting on the couch. He crouches over her, moving down between her legs and pulling her thighs apart. She’s in no mood to deny him, not now. 

She enjoys the way they both seem to settle into this back-and-forth, this seesaw of giving and receiving, how they fall into the balance of the other, so harmoniously.

Her skirts pulled up around her waist, she has a moment to reflect on the fact he’s never seen her properly undressed. Another time, maybe.

He takes a moment, pressing his lips to the soft, pliant flesh of her inner thigh. He bites her softly there, noting the freckles, noting the way her toes curl as he teases her. 

He had promised her something new, and something new she will have. He barely allows his lips to lift from her skin as he pulls her underthings down to her ankles, baring her to him.

His finger is warm as it presses against the tight ring of muscle just below her cunt, ever so slightly. She gasps, involuntarily, at how surprisingly welcome the intrusion is. She does not protest his exploration of this more taboo part of her.

She also knows that he likely won’t be able to continue, unless...

Maybe he’s telepathic, because he reaches down into his robes to pull out a small flute, and her eyes widen in recognition.

It’s oil. Holy oil. Consecrated, anointed oil.

She trembles, her head falling back against the worn cushioning of the couch. She is unable to watch as he dips his fingers into the oil. 

Her chest clenches at the knowledge that this is  _ not how it should be used _ . And yet, she does not stop him, does she? Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. 

Her hands grip the edge of the sofa. “Archbishop,” she moans slightly, as he uses this opportunity to press his lips to her quivering center and lick appreciatively upwards. She chokes back a desperate sob.

His finger slips into her ass easily now with the oil, exploratory. She scrunches her eyes shut in an effort to relax into his ministrations. It’s an entirely new sensation,  being stretched like this. 

She feels the oil drip down the space between her glutes, staining the couch cushions beneath her.

“Do you think you could come like this?” She hears him say, muffled against her cunt. He’s fucking her with his tongue slightly, and she swears her knuckles must be turning white from the overwhelming sensation of his tongue in her pussy and a finger in her ass.

She whimpers, wholly. “Like what?”

He meets her eyes.

“Say what you mean,” she tells him, holding her gaze steady.

“Do you think you could come like this, with my finger in your ass?” He manages to murmur breathlessly. His voice has dropped, and it’s low, the vibrations tickling her thigh. 

That same voice reads a sermon to churchgoers every Sunday.

She arches her back slightly. 

“Of course I can, Archbishop,” she tells him, matter-of-factly.

He lowers his mouth to her once more, his tongue probing the molten hot inner walls of her,  sliding up to suck at her clit, toying at it slightly with his teeth. Her lungs have positively forgotten how to accurately process oxygen. She feels her vision go a bit blurry, and remembers to inhale, exhale. She’s pulled tight like cord, taut with tension, taut with the knowledge that this is  _ wrong. _

That he’s brought her  _ here,  _ to this secret place of his. Where she’s seeing this entirely new side of him. The side of him she never entirely understood, the side of him he keeps up in this tower with his secret bookcase and secret parchment.

He pumps his finger gently, in and out of her, until she’s gasping for breath once more. His other hand reaches around to loop around her hips and pull her flush against his mouth, where he surrounds the puffy, dark pink flesh of her glistening folds with his mouth.

She supposes this is how voraciously Persephone would have eaten the pomegranate that trapped her in the Underworld. He devours her, she’s so sure she feels his tongue in six different places at once; his fervor is intoxicating.

She bucks her hips, digging her fingers into the cushions, her gasps turning into soft wails she desperately hopes the janitorial staff will politely ignore. She imagines the outside world, outside of those stained glass windows, where he might be doing this to her in a bed, in a home somewhere. Maybe their home.

She whimpers, his tongue sliding into her cunt and his nose pressing into her clit, in tandem with his anointed finger in her ass. She quivers as a bow breaks, as her back arches and she gushes down around the Archbishop’s mouth, and he coaxes her through it. 

She reckons she has stained too many parts of this cathedral with her come for her to reasonably get past the gates of St. Peter. 

And who could she confess to? The man between her thighs? 

He leaves her panting on the couch, before he joins her, sitting next to her and pulling her into his lap, pliant and sated. Tears stream down her cheeks, and he strokes her head. 

She doesn’t need to say it, what she needs. He knows to removes her habit from her head, and leans down to press a kiss into her hair.

He holds her until her tears dry and she has drifted asleep. 

The Archbishop sits there for a long while, with the woman he should not be with, in the room he should not have.

**Author's Note:**

> [beaataaaa mariaaaa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3NoDEu7kpg)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr: [arroways](https://arroways.tumblr.com/)  
> or Twitter: [@arr0ways](https://twitter.com/arr0ways)  
> (no kinkshaming allowed)


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